Chapter 9
After Judge Austin W. Black had taken the maidenhead of beautiful mature Edith Garvin as we have already seen, he forced the unfortunate young woman to continue gamahuching the pretty teen-aged goldenhaired Martha Cronkite until the latter had achieved a climax under his gloating eyes. Then, changing his personality completely into that of a fatherly and benign confidant, he guilefully bade Martha take Edith into the bathroom and give her a bath and solace her hurts. This done, Edith was given a costume which she was to wear on Welfare Island: it consisted of white nylon bra and matching panties, black cotton stockings which rose high on the thighs and were held in place by old-fashioned elastic garters, a white cotton slip, and a drab gray cotton-dress whose hems reached to midcalf, and finally a pair of low heeled work shoes. Thus the outer garments, in the event that any official visitor should suddenly take it into his head to inspect the state's correctional institution for women, would convince him that all the prisoners were decorously attired and equitably treated, whereas those clothes, to be sure, a provocative and filmy white nylon bra and panties left these captives in a highly vulnerable state in the event that the superintendent or the Judge himself or any of his secret crime-syndicate associates wished to amuse themselves by whipping or violating these hapless females.
When Edith Garvin at last emerged from the bathroom, her eyes red and swollen from crying, walking unsteadily because of the shock of her flogging and rape, Judge Black solicitously complimented her on her attractiveness and told her that he had finished with her for the time being. She would, he declared, be put to work at once for him, and she would go to Welfare Island that very night, there to be interviewed by Doctor Marjorie Sayers, to whom she would be a secretary and, if need be, personal maid.
In vain poor Edith Garvin pleaded to be set free, swearing she would never tell anyone what had been done to her, but the Judge was adamant. "Don't try my patience, Edie girl," he had thundered. "All I have to do is snap my fingers, and you'll be taken off to a whore house in New Orleans or maybe even in South America, never to be heard from again. Your fiance Ben Rosenzweig won't ever be able to find you, that's for sure. I'm being lenient with you, because you finally asked me to fuck you, even if it did take a little switching of that big juicy ass of yours to bring you to such an unladylike request."
Crushed, agonized, but conquered by this accomplished whoremaster, the lovely brown-haired Jewess had passively submitted to his will. His Japanese valet had entered the room at Judge Black's call, handcuffed the weeping brownette with her wrists behind her back, and led her off to the Judge's limousine, which he drove to the desolate creek. Meanwhile, Judge Black had telephoned the prison and advised Dr. Sayers that she was to have another prisoner, who would be held there under indeterminate sentence and who was to work for her as secretary and as maid. "She's not to be part of any of the entertainment projects we have for our guests, Marjorie," he had told the red-haired Lesbian dominatress, "and if you have occasion to punish her, just store it up until my next visit. I think that perhaps by the next weekend I'll spend some time with you and your charming charges, my dear Marjorie. By the way, how is Ray Hickey behaving himself?"
Upon being told that the young brown-haired guard was cooperating to the fullest extent and even showing an enthusiasm for taking part in some of the private "shows" which the Judge regularly staged for syndicate visitors and amateur buyers of slaves, the white-haired lecher chuckled: "Excellent, my dear! Well, I want you to keep Mr. Hickey in Saturday evening, mind you now. I'm going to let him see his delicious wife being entertained by Dr. Fenwick and myself. If I have any time left, I'll deal with Edith Garvin. Take good care of her. It's taken me five years to catch up with that haughty little spinster, but you can take my word that this evening she's had a great start in her education in being a woman, ha ha ha!"
Dr. Marjorie Sayers had hung up the phone with a grimace of annoyance. A confirmed Lesbian, she had, for reasons we already know, no love at all for the male, and the only pleasure she derived in witnessing or participating in scenes in which her female charges were put to the lash and delivered up to the violation, sometimes in the underground arena, sometimes in the handsome, soundproofed small assembly hall on the first lower level of this medieval-looking edifice, was that she bore an unwavering hatred of all lovely young women exactly because she had caught her husband in the arms of such a scheming female. She had not forgotten her rancor towards Laura Williams, the former secretary of her husband and the woman whom she had found in bed with him that fatal afternoon. Without that discovery, she might today not be the superintendent of this prison, not in league with the lecherous Judge and his crime-allied henchmen. And yet, seeing how her perverse and precocious daughters, Jackie and Betty thrived in this unhallowed atmosphere and how they too took after her in applying the lash and torture to insipidly lovely young females singled out for punishment, Dr. Marjorie Sayers found her post eminently tolerable. Her town living quarters, a suite of beautifully furnished and soundproofed rooms, were located on the first floor at the left wing of this sprawling stone building, and Betty and Jackie each had their own suite down the hall from hers.
As she hung up the phone and prepared to receive the new prisoner, Edith Garvin, she thought of the Judge's remark about Dr. Archibald Fenwick, who made her flesh shudder-but not, it was true, in the diabolical ways he had of making his victims shudder, as he would poor Irene Hickey's within the week....
Claire Ralston looked up from her typewriter as Sally Dalby entered the city desk room of the "News-Gazette and demurely took her place at her desk. The svelte brunette's eyes narrowed, and her lips tightened with fixation. Sally's red-haired beauty and gorgeous figure made her spitefully jealous every time she saw that goody-goody little bitch.
She new that Jack Harkins was sweet on Sally, and she wished there was a way of eliminating the girl at the other end of the room... maybe even permanently. Because if Sally were out of the way, she herself would have the field clear of any rival and she would go after Jack Harkins and make him hers. An idea grew in her mind, but it was much too fantastic, too improbable. She knew Judge Austin Black, and she knew that as head of the Municipal Court of Catayunga he was empowered to sentence women to the prison of Welfare Island. Now if only Sally Dalby could be arrested on some charge or another and given a taste of what prison was really like, maybe with big brawny matrons taking a strap to that plump behind of hers and making her get down on all fours and making her scrub the floor like a slavey, then she herself could really pitch woo to handsome Jack. She couldn't understand why a virile man like him had never really given her a tumble.
Claire Ralston was not a virgin, and she had had affairs not only with several men but also with a number of attractive women. Claire had just moved into a handsome furnished apartment on Elderberry Avenue, one of the prettiest residential sections of the Arkansas town, and she had hired a seventeen-year-old farmgirl, Wilma Deering to take care of the apartment and to help her with the cooking when she felt out of sorts, which was most of the time lately because of her frustration over the editor of the News-Gazette.
Wilma Deering had lived on a little dirt farm which produced potatoes and seed corn, about ten miles to the southwest of Catayunga, with her stepfather. Her mother had died about six months ago, and the pretty orphan discovered that her fifty-two-year-old stepfather intended for her to take her mother's place in his bed. She had already resisted him several times and tasted the strap in the woodshed for her pains. He had finally given her an ultimatum one stormy winter evening that either you come across, you teasing little bitch, because you know you're hot for it anyhow, so there's no need to carry on like you're high-priced cherry-or else I'll tie you up in the barn and use the strap on your ass and tits till you beg me to cuke you good and plenty, you hear, Wilma?"
Wilma was spirited and had decided to run away rather than meet this ultimatum. Unfortunately for her, she had been apprehended by one of Sheriff Mack Dawson's deputies, and brought back to town. There the Sheriff, one of Judge Black's cronies and as corrupt as his overload, had interviewed the frightened but still defiant light-brown-haired girl and promptly returned her to her stepfather.
Wilma had been tied up by her wrists to a beam in the barn, her gingham skirt dragged up over her head to blindfold her and to muffle her outcries, her panties dragged down to her calves and strapped ferociously on her naked bottom until she had fainted. Then, overcome by his insensate rut, her stepfather had fucked her, despite her still valiant attempts to ward him off by kicking at him. He had cuffed her to unconsciousness and then had his way with her and left her there all night long bleeding and slumping in her bonds, her bottom livid from the crisscrossing weals the heavy black leather strap had laid upon it.
In the morning, when he came out to tend her wounds, she had feigned submission and agreed to be his bedbitch. Overjoyed and tricked by her apparent docility-which he naturally attributed to his own domineering skill-he had allowed her to take a bath and then, locking her in her room, had gone to town to buy her a new dress, a kind of bribe which he had promised in return for her "being nice to me like your Mom used to be."
Wilma had managed to break a window with her shoe and crawl out, scratching herself rather badly in the process. She had gone into town on foot, made her way to the small employment agency where a motherly widow was in charge, had told the widow her story of beatings and violation, and the shocked woman had promised to find her a job and to hide her identity in the event that her stepfather made inquiries after her. At about this time, Claire Ralston had decided, jaded as she was by her lack of sexual adventures, to hire a maid, and so Wilma Deering entered her household.
Claire found the pretty seventeen-year-old quite piquant and desirable, and amused herself the first few weeks in changing Wilma's hairdo, buying some new clothes which would accentuate the young girl's physical charms, and teaching her also certain amenities in service as well as in the intimate care of her mistress. She saw to it that Wilma was frequently summoned to undress and dress her, to help her with her bath, to apply perfume and powder and even makeup, and even to do her hair. Gradually, the pretty brownette, as Claire had slyly conjectured, began to be attracted by the sensual allure of the svelte brunette. Wilma Deering was of slightly more than medium height, with a round, sweet face, dimpled cheeks, expressive, large hazel eyes with very thick brows, a straight nose, and a full sweet mouth. Her skin was an adorable carnation tint which is found in the darker blondes, and her body was delectable enough already to explain her stepfather's inordinate lust for it. High-perched, solid round young titties, with strawberry-pink ripe young buds set amid narrow pale coral aureolae, a slim waist which flared into round, solidly resilient and compact buttocks, long but deliciously curvaceous thighs and saucily high-set calves, together with a plump mount of Venus over which only a crisp and not overly thick cluster of dark brown pussycurls shielded the adorable pink fig which was the sweet fruit of her cunt.
Her voice was seductively low-pitched, even a trifle husky and tremulous, caused no doubt by her atrocious months of subjugation by her stepfather. Under Claire's aegis, however, she had regained much of her spirit and grace, though she was still quite ingenuous as to the ways of man and maid. And she knew absolutely nothing about the ways of women with their own kind.
On this Friday afternoon, exactly a week after Edith Garvin had been apprehended and brought to the Judge's house for the long-awaited "reunion," Claire Ralston took another look at Sally Dalby, rose from her desk and marched into the office of Jack Harkins, wearing her sweetest smile and her jauntiest manner.
"Hi there, Claire," he greeted her, looking up from a proof of the front page of the next edition of the News-Gazette. "What can I do for you?"
"A lot more than you think, Jack," was Claire's blunt answer as she seated herself at the side of his desk and promptly crossed her long sleek legs, elegantly sheathed in smoke-colored nylons, the most expensive she could buy and which had been ordered especially from Little Rock. "What are you doing tonight?"
"Nothing, so far as I know. Why?"
"Why don't we go out to dinner and maybe dancing? There's a little combo down at the Palace. I know it's not like New York or Chicago or Frisco, but we could make believe?"
"Claire, I like you very much and I think you're a swell girl," Jack Harkins said, laying down his blue pencil and looking directly at the provocative brunette. "I'm very flattered that you seem to take a liking to me, and I can reciprocate if it weren't for the fact that I happen to be engaged."
Claire's smile faded. "To Sally, I suppose?" She poutingly asked.
"That's right. There's no use kidding you, Claire. This is a small town and everybody knows what everybody else is doing, which sometimes isn't too good for all concerned. But Sally and I are engaged, and I hope some day I can marry her. What I want, before anything else and even before that, though, is to get a real scoop and make the News-Gazette important so the big papers will pick it up. I'm working on an idea right now."
"May I know what it is?"
"I'd rather you didn't, seriously, Claire. It's top-drawer stuff, though, I can tell you that."
"You're aiming high, aren't you? I wonder if it has anything to do with Judge Black."
He scowled. "Now what makes you think a thing like that, Claire? I didn't mention Judge Black, did I?"
The provocative brunette shrugged, uncrossed her legs, smoothed her skirt, then crossed her legs the other way, this time making sure that her skirt rucked up above her suave, dimpled kneecap. "I just happen to know you don't especially like him," she drawled. "So I thought maybe you'd like to pin something on him."
"This is a newspaper, even if it is for a small one. Where I learned journalism, Claire, you report the facts, not what you want to happen. Sure, I'd like to see him impeached and run out of town, but until it's proved that he's a no-good politician whose making more money than his salary pays him for sitting on the bench and sending a couple of unfortunate women off to that hellhole of a prison, I certainly am not going to do any distortion of the facts."
"You're a noble crusader, is that it?" she said peevishly, staring angrily at him. "Why don't you relax, Jack honey? If you're going to stay around and wait for a smart guy like Black to make a mistake, you'll be wearing a gray beard and still running this crummy little paper. Now if you're as smart as I'm sure you are, you take a job in New York or St. Louis or New Orleans or Chicago, get yourself a decent salary, and team up with a girl who knows the ropes. Sally's fine, but she's a small town hick, and don't you forget it."
"I think that's quite enough, Claire. Let's keep personalities out of this. I happen to be engaged to her and I'm going to marry her."
"Fine. I'm sorry you won't take me out tonight. I'd even pay for it."
"Thanks anyway, but no thanks."
"All right. I know when I'm licked. But one day, I'll lay a little bet that you'll be sorry you turned me down, Jack Harkins. I don't usually throw myself at a man the way I just did at you, and I don't particularly like being given the brush act. Why, I could be nicer to you right now than Sally will ever know how to be, if you want to know something."
She rose, smoothing her dress over her thighs, looking at him with langurous eyes. He flushed hotly, for there was no doubt that she was a stimulating piece of cunt. Indeed, Claire Ralston had figured in many of his nocturnal fantasies, but there had never been any love attached to it. He knew her for a scheming, cool, sophisticated bitch, a fine mistress or one-night-stand-girl, but not wife material, not really.
"I'm not looking for that in a wife," he said rather stiffly and cursed himself for being so ingenuous.
Claire tilted back her head and laughed merrily. "My, aren't you a real Sir Galahad, though! I guess I overestimated you, Jack darling. I thought you were a real swinger, and that you wouldn't tie yourself down to a sweet little homebody who'll bear you a couple of brats and get fat and stupid and-"
"I think that's quite enough, Claire. Don't make me say something that we'll both regret. You know, if you don't like it here, you can always resign."
"I know that. You're not going to fire me because you know I'm doing a damn good job and I'm doing it for peanuts. I don't need the money. I'll tell you one last thing, since this is our moment of truth, Jack Harkins, I've got a yen for you, and, as I've just told you, this is the first time I've ever come right out and told a man I felt that way about him. You can understand that I don't feel too kindly at being shown the door. But I'm going to fool you. I'm going to stay round this office and do my job and just wait for developments. Because one of these days, you're going to be sorry you turned me down, you'll see. So thanks a lot for your time, boss man."
She walked out, went over to her desk, tore the page out of the typewriter roller with a vicious grimace, crumpled it up into a wad and flung it into the wastebasket, then walked out of the office. Sally Dalby, wide-eyed, watched the entire scene with both wonder and dismay. She might indeed be a virginal "goody-goody" as Claire Ralston had just termed her, but Sally Dalby happened to guess by intuition that Claire Ralston was her rival for Jack Harkins' affections....
It was evening and Wilma had just finished washing and drying the dinner plates and silver, while Claire Ralston lounged in a black satin negligee on the wide low couch in the attractive spacious living room of her apartment. Her face was dark with anger and she puffed at a cigarette, impatiently flicking the ashes into a copper ashtray on the glass-covered coffee table before her. It was as she had thought. Jack Harkins wanted to be a little hero. And about the only person you could attack in this crummy little high town was Judge Austin W. Black. There were no two ways about it; Jack Harkins was out to get the Judge, by fair means or foul. She hadn't fallen for his noble speech about not distorting facts, not one little bit. She also knew that Jack Harkins, as editor of the paper, had been dead set against locating a woman's correctional prison so close to Catayunga, and that he had also had suspicions that somebody had made an enormous profit in acquiring the property for a song and then selling it back to the state for the purposes of creating the institution.
Maybe it wouldn't do any harm to have a little chat with the Judge, just sort of know which way the wind was blowing. Maybe there were certain favors the Judge could do for her in exchange for this newsy little bit of information. She began to smile as she leaned back against the couch. She was naked under the negligee except for fluffy mules, and her body tingled with an impatient desire which the memory of Jack Harkins' rebuff had aggravated.
"Wilma? Have you finished the dishes, dear?" she called.
A moment later, the charming young brownette entered the room. She wore a glossy black satin skirt and sleeveless white satin bolero jacket which left her midriff bare and buttoned tightly over her swelling young titties. Gunmetal gray nylons sheathed her delectably curved legs, and her feet were shod in a pair of glistening black leather pumps with spike heels. A pretty little lace maid's cap was on her light brown hair, which had been cut in a pert, fluffy upsweep, feathercurls which were most sophisticated and chic. Claire's eyes narrowed and shadowed with desire. "You look very pretty this evening, dear. But you know you broke a cup the other night and I didn't say anything about it."
"Oh I'm so sorry, Miss Claire!" Wilma was instantly contrite.
"I'm afraid I shall have to punish you, darling. Go to my bedroom and prepare yourself. I'll be in a few minutes later."
Wilma turned crimson to her throat and ears as she meekly lowered her eyes and stammered, "Why -yes, M-Miss Claire."
After she had disappeared, Claire Ralston lit another cigarette and, crossing her elegantly lithe legs, pondered for a few minutes as she sent ring after blue ring of smoke wafting to the ceiling, lost in thought. Yes, it would be very smart to make a friend of Judge Austin W. Black. He could do a great deal for her. Maybe her fantasy of having Sally Dalby locked up and away out of circulation could even come true...
She crushed out her cigarette and rose, her heart beating quickly as she went down the hallway to the bedroom. As she opened the door, her pear-firm titties rose and fell with erotic rhythm as she saw Wilma stretched out on the bed, naked except for garterbelt, hose and pumps, her head pillowed in her folded arms, her carnation-pink-and-white buttocks gleaming and palpitating under the soft diffused ceiling light.
On the bed beside her lay a black wooden oval-shaped hairbrush and a buckling leather strap.
Claire Ralston unbelted her negligee and let it slither to the floor and was naked in her mules. The thick black triangle of pussyfur marked the apex of her long sleek legs, whose muscles nervously raced and rippled under the finely grained smooth skin. Her nipples had darkened and stiffened, and her lips were moist and quivering as she moved towards the bed.
"Get ready," she announced crisply, but her voice had the inflection of sensual anticipation. Wilma instantly put her hands behind her back, clasping her fingers as in supplication, while Claire took the strap and made it tight around the slim soft wrists. Then, kneeling on the bed, she took the hairbrush in her hand and commanded, "Count twenty-five, and after each one, say, 'I'm so sorry, Mistress Claire, that I broke the saucer!' Are you ready, my dear?"
"Yes, M-Mistress C-Claire," quavered the naked young beauty.
The hairbrush began to rise and fall slowly, with crisp sonorities, as gradually the carnation-smooth purity of those jutting and tempting round buttocks changed to angry scarlet, while the stockinged legs kicked up and down and the naked, luscious hips of the young victim jerked and twisted and arched under the spanking. But Wilma counted out the spanks and added the ritualistic formula after each, though towards the last ten spanks her voice was flurried with sobs and tears and whimpering little pleas for mercy.
When it was over, she lifted her head to kiss the hairbrush and then the hand that had yielded it. Her eyes were humid, and her titties were panting as Claire bent and cupped the girl's chin and lifted her head to stare into those exquisite, dilated, tearblurred hazel eyes: "Do you want me to console you now, darling?" she breathed.
Once again Wilma could not suppress the violent blush that suffused her cheeks at once, and as she closed her eyes, she whispered, "Oh yes, oh please yes!"
Claire shivered, as she tossed the brush to the corner of the bed and then walked slowly towards her dresser. Opening the top drawer, she took out a black rubber dildo fixed to a webbing of sturdy nylon and leather, and affixed this phallic simulacrum about her loins. Then she turned back to the bed. Wilma had rolled over onto her back, her wrists still strapped and buckled behind her, and spread her thighs very wide, her eyes fixing on that bobbing simulated male spear.
Claire Ralston clambered onto the bed, and her hands began to knead Wilma's panting titties. "Now I'm going to love you, darling, and make you forget that cruel spanking I had to give your beautiful bottom," she crooned.
And then she thrust herself as a man would into the already moistening vulva of her lovely teen-aged maid. Wilma's face twisted to one side, not in pain but in a kind of sensual ecstasy, as her body arched to meet that impalement.
Her knees up, twisting and moving from side to side, she wriggled her flaming buttocks as Claire Ralston dildo-fucked her, but at last Claire's own furious passions made her fall upon the groaning and sobbing naked girl and silence those cries into ecstatic moans with her own avid mouth and voracious tongue.